


Part 0: Turning Back the Hands of Time

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [41]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama & Romance, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24184840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: [Set prior to the beginning of the series, during Hisana and Byakua's courtship.] Hisana wonders when Byakuya will tell her about his upcoming nuptials.
Relationships: Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [41]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Part 0: Turning Back the Hands of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all---
> 
> First, a BIG thank you to anyone who still reads this story. (Does anyone still do that? It has been a long time since the last update, especially given that the series concluded years ago.) 
> 
> Life has taken over, reducing my time to do anything other than work. But, during the quarantine, I have had some (limited) time to dedicate to things I enjoy. Unfortunately, my last move cost me my old computer (hereinafter dubbed the "No Good, Very Bad Move") on which I had sketched out the next chapters in the storyline. As this will take me a little more time to recreate, I thought it might be fun to share these few chapters to give a little more context to the courtship period hinted at in the main story, as this content has been hanging out for a while on one of my devices that was spared during the No Good, Very Bad Move.  
> As you might have guessed from the title, this portion of the story occurs prior to the main timeline a la the Swing Back the Pendulum arc (because detours set years and years in the past can be fun).

**Part 0: Turning Back the Hands of Time**

**The Impetuous Temptations**

The sweet scent of summer rain and cherry blossoms nearly eclipses the rustling of the door sliding back on its track.

She lifts her head. An elegant arch. Her eyes, large and hungry, find his with ease. 

Her heart stops, a thunderclap slamming into her chest. She isn’t supposed to feel this way. Girlish. Helpless. Dumbstruck. 

Yet, here they are. Locked in a stare. Tension slowly building, a weighty pressure growing with each second. It is a dangerous feeling, she thinks. Especially since she knows there will be no sweet release.

“You’re soaking wet, milord,” she says, rising to her feet in a graceful movement. 

“It was a deluge,” Byakuya Kuchiki murmurs.

In an instant, she is at a small closet, hidden in the décor. Her hands move quickly over soft silks as she gathers a fresh kimono in her arms. She exhales a small breath of relief that the additional garments had not been put to use before now. 

“Let me,” she says with bowed head and eyes that trail to the tatami floors. She can’t summon the courage to spare him a glance, not even a fluttery one, as she reaches his side.

It’s wrong, she thinks. To want something so badly, so crudely. And, yet, she hasn’t been able to master this newly discovered _want_. It burns her so deeply, threatening to engulf her in wildfire. 

She pushes it down—deep, deeper still—and she prays that she has buried her reckless desire deep enough, when she steps to his back and begins to help him out of his wet silks.

She keeps her eyes glued to the damp blue fabric that pools in her arms. Anything to avoid setting off her traitorous heart. But, it is a losing battle. She must focus her gaze to the expanse of his back.

It is a sight to behold. Pale skin follows tautly over lean muscle that, even relaxed, tells her stories of conquer, of struggle, and—if she looks closely enough—of defeat. The faint silvery lines of scar tissue mark him, drawing a map of battles past in his flesh.

“Your shoulder,” she murmurs, concern twisting the smoothness of her voice. 

The skin over his right shoulder is heavily bruised. Deep purples and reds trail down to the top of his bicep. 

Caressingly, she traces the damage with her fingertips, observing how even the lightest pressure triggers a spasm of pain. 

He doesn’t speak a word, but she hears the ragged breath he pulls. He is a stubborn man, incapable of admitting weakness. It is a trait they both share, she thinks.

Again, she is off to the secret closet, where she fetches a tin of ointment that she uses when violence strikes. She feels his eyes on her as she fumbles through the items stored on the cedar shelves. 

When she returns, he regards her with a soulful glance. “Unguent?” he asks, voice low, soft. Too soft. He sounds pitying, as if he has surmised the need for such medicine.

It is recklessness that sends her gaze to his. Time seemingly slows as she searches for the words to assuage his worries. He isn’t wrong in his unspoken assumption. Violence has drawn silvery boundary lines in her flesh as well.

With the precision of a rehearsed poem, she answers him, “Milord is a brave man, but even brave men must suffer the slings and arrows of battle, no? I must be prepared for such instances.” 

She holds her breath as she searches his face for traces of disbelief. 

As she expected, he does not appear convinced. His lips part, as if he wants to confront her, but just as suddenly as they open, they close. His jaw clenches, and he lowers his gaze. It is an act of submission. Submission to her. To her pride. To her dignity.

Her hearts sputters at this, but she continues. She carefully applies the ointment before gently swaddling him in the silks of the spare kimono. It is a lovely green, the color of freshly sliced cucumber. Visually, it has a cooling effect, a benefit on this sweltering summer day.

She takes a step to the door, and, upon opening it, one of her attendants startles. “Please take Lord Kuchiki’s clothes to be freshened,” she directs the girl gently.

Then, she closes the door. Just as she is about to turn to him, she feels the weight of her hair as it tumbles to her shoulders. Inky locks cascade down her shoulders like a raven river. 

Her lips curl into a grin as she finds him inspecting the kanzashi that had once pinned up her hair. The pale pink pin is ornate, with streamers designed to look like cherry blossoms dangling off the flower design.

“Milord teases me,” she murmurs, a devious gleam in her eyes.

He smirks lightly to himself. “You are fond of this pin,” he observes, “I never see you without it.” The boyish grin disappears when his attention turns to her.

She smiles lightly, glancing down diffidently. “It reminds me of you, milord.” Her cheeks burn at the confession.

“How so?” His chin tilts up, and she can feel the weight of his gaze as it lingers on her face. 

“Because,” she begins, voice breaking and breathless, “like the life of a cherry blossom, the time spent with milord is always beautiful, but far too short.” She cuts him a quick glance to find a wry grin lengthening his lips.

Byakuya Kuchiki isn’t a sentimental man. And, she is fairly certain that he doesn’t believe the genuineness of her words. However, her words do not paint a complete lie. 

She wears the hairpin for him and only him, true. But, she does so because he smells of freshly blossomed sakura, a scent that she has slowly come to love, even though she prefers the white plums of spring to the sakura.

He tucks his chin down, and his gaze returns to the cloth cherry blossom streamers of the hairpin. “Is that what you say to all the men?” He doesn’t look at her as he speaks the words. 

He doesn’t need to. She hears the pain through the fray of his voice. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. And, suddenly, she is terrified. 

She was meant to sell him an illusion, and he was supposed to accept the illusion. She has taken great measures to ensure he never senses what her occupation entails. Yet something has gone horribly awry. With them both. And now, here they stand with the illusion stretched so thin, he openly questions it.

What can she possibly say to pacify him? Her body is for sale, and she has very little control over the purchasers and the terms. And, just as she has little control over who shares her time and bed, he cannot control the hands of fate forcing him to undertake an oath to another woman. 

The inevitability of her infidelity is no different than the inevitability of his. 

She closes the distance between them, a fact that he hardly seems to notice until her hands close over his. The suddenness of her intimacy coaxes his attention to her. He looks lost in thought.

“What other men?” she asks, voice a raspy whisper. She searches him, closely, intently. “I only see this man,” she adds, tilting her head to the side. 

Without another thought, she closes her eyes and presses a kiss to his lips. Her heart speeds and euphoria takes over, as if the ground has ripped from under her. She isn’t sure of herself despite having done this very act countless times with countless men.

But, she has never kissed this man.

No, he has refused the comfort of her lips, of her arms, even her touch, at every turn. 

Yet, right then, he pulls closer, not away. He sinks against her, his mouth hungry, hungrier than she anticipates. And, for the first time, she feels like she is drowning.

She deepens the kiss, wanting more. More of his heat. More of his weight. More of him, against her. 

But, he is a stubborn man, and she feels the moment when his restraints snap into place, locking his desire away. She feels his muscles harden against her. She feels how his heat retracts, leaving her with a cool word.

 _“Enough,”_ he nearly growls.

Dreamily, she pulls away, eyes soft-focused on his lips. “It doesn’t have to be,” she murmurs, desire and frustration braiding her words.

His eyes squeeze shut. She can sense his need, his want, how he yearns just as much as she does, but he wills it down, pushes it away.

He is her better, through and through.

Her gaze falls to her hands wrapped tightly against his. He still clutches her kanzashi, as if the prickle of the pin might tether him to reality. 

“Keep it,” she says.

His gaze follows hers, and he regards her with a gentle look.

“A gift,” she responds to the question lodged in his eyes, “to prove that I only wear the pin for you.” 

“Hisana,” he says her name with the quietness of a prayer. There is reverence in his voice. But, there is pain, too. 

She steps away, to the small table of tea that she had set in anticipation of his arrival. “I heard that the Eleventh Squad has a new captain,” she digresses.

He watches her in silence for a few long moments.

“They say that the new captain killed the former captain in open battle,” she continues, preparing the tea with a thoughtless grace. “Is that common?” she asks and offers him a cup.

He takes her offering and sits on the plush mat that she has set for him. “It is one way to obtain a captainship,” he mutters under his breath, “common for the Eleventh.”

She warms her hands against the heat of her tea bowl. “What about the Sixth?” As much as she tries to tame her voice, worry strangles her words.

He regards her with a warm look, as if concern for his safety is a rarity. “Not common for the Sixth,” he assures her. 

Relief thins her lips into a small smile, which she quickly hides behind the rim of her tea bowl. Taking a long sip, she sets the cup down and observes her companion. 

He is lost in thought again, and, judging by the deep frown lines, the thoughts are unpleasant company. 

She waits quietly. She doesn’t know what to say or do to break his somber contemplation. Usually, he is easier in her presence. 

“Is all well, milord?” she asks, tipping her head to the side, as if a slanted glance might improve her perspective of his disposition. 

It doesn’t.

A muscle flickers in his jaw, and he inhales a deep breath. A breath he holds for far too long.

She leans forward with bated breath. 

Is he severing his ties with her? she can’t help but wonder. 

She has heard news of his recent betrothal. While the marriage state never seemed to present a hurdle for any of her other patrons, she believes Byakuya Kuchiki to be different than those men. 

He will end their relationship, she is convinced. 

Unexpectedly, the thought of him becoming a distant memory shoots a bitter shard through her heart. 

_How selfish_ , she thinks of herself. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she pushes the pain away, pretends it isn’t there. It isn’t real. It can’t be real. She won’t let her feelings to emerge, to run wild, to ruin her. 

_Except_ ….

“Is it milord’s training that perturbs him?” she offers when they sink further into the silence of the room.

Byakuya holds her stare. There is a melancholy trapped in those gray eyes of his, one so deep and so fast, it threatens to sweep her away. His gaze slips from her to the simple weave of the tatami. “My training is going well,” he says with an air of defeat. 

Whatever thought plagues him seems to have him beaten. 

“I’ve never seen milord’s sword,” she notes wryly, a devilish twinkle burning in her eyes. 

He blinks at her observation, as if just realizing something. Catching her teasing look, his lips slant into a crooked half-grin. “Swords are typically not appreciated at a _teahouse_.”

“You’d be surprised,” she retorts wryly and takes a long sip of her tea. “What is its name?”

His grin widens, and his eyes dive to his cup. “Senbonzakura.” He says the word so softly, she has to strain to hear it. 

Not missing the irony, Hisana chuckles lightly to herself, eyes shining bright. So, she wasn’t wrong to choose the cherry blossom kanzashi for him. 

“May I see you tonight?” he asks after a long pause. “Your manservant informed me that you have the evening off.”

She lifts her chin slightly at the question. “Of course, milord.” Again, her heart quakes at the prospect of losing him, but she pushes her fears aside. “I will inform my attendants,” she starts, but he cuts her off with a firm shake of the head.

“Not here, not through the House,” he says, a hopeful look smoothing the lines of his face.

She is taken aback by this request. It is improper, imprudent, impertinent. And, yet, when presented with its prospect, it’s the only thing she wants. But, she can’t. 

She turns her head, eyes glued to the floor. “That would be improper,” her voice fractures midair. “The House would not permit it.”

That’s putting it mildly. The Peony House outright _forbids_ such behavior. It is a business. The women perform a _service_ for a _fee_ , a fee that is payable to the House, not the women. To continue any relationship established within the confines of the House’s jurisdiction outside such jurisdiction would be akin to theft. 

The House owns the women in whole, their bodies, their talents, and their finances. The women are _investments_ , a fact that the House is keen on reminding them at every opportunity. They are merely _products_ that could be traded for large sums of money, money that the women never see. 

_But…._

Meeting his stare, defiance sparks in her heart. “However, at twilight, I do enjoy lingering on the bridge leading from the Floating World to the market.” 

His gaze softens. He understands her meaning perfectly well. “Of course.”

Telling him a place she likes to visit during her free-time isn’t technically against the rules, she thinks to herself. 

She can’t refuse his request. Her heart won’t allow it. And, as of then, the House hasn’t thought to purchase her heart.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and i won't speak and i am not to speak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25272274) by [Larrant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant)




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